Beyond Ordinary Love

by Ann Christopher

By then, she’d been gone for several minutes. She hurried up the Staircase of Death and back out to the table, where Baptiste was off the phone and finishing up with the check. He looked around, his features tight, and brightened when he saw her.

  “What happened to you? I was a little worried.”

  “Too much hot chocolate.” She kept her smile firmly in place. “You should have warned me.”

  “French chocolate is very powerful,” he said gravely. “Never underestimate it again.”

  “I won’t.”

  He stood, slung his camera over his shoulder (it was a monstrous thing with a long lens that he’d been using to take pictures of her all morning) and took her hand. “Are you ready?”

  “Do Parisians like scarves?”

  Laughing, they set off down the street as it ran parallel to the Seine, heading in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. They walked in silence for a while as Samira tried to take it all in.

  “So what happened at the Conciergerie?” she asked, pointing across the river. “Wasn’t Marie-Antoinette imprisoned there?”

  “She was. We can check it out later, if you like. Sainte Chapelle is also there on that little island. Île de la Cité.”

  “Yeah, let’s check it out. I’m dying to see the stained glass. I hear it’s glorious.”

  “It is.”

  “Oh, and I love all these vendors with their dusty books and postcards.”

  “We’ll have to get something for your parents and Melody.” He took off his lens cap and snapped some shots of the river. “Did you tell her about our adventure?”

  “I did.” Samira laughed. “You should have heard her squealing. Do you ever get used to all this? Being in Paris?”

  He looked off over her shoulder, at the bridges and the river. The Eiffel Tower in the distance. Breathed deep. Smiled down at her. “I think I was used to it, to tell you the truth. I’ve been here for so long and I work so much. I keep my head down. But now?” He leaned down for a quick kiss. “It’s good to see it through your eyes.”

  “So what’s this long building on the right? Man, it’s huge.”

  “What, this?” He frowned vaguely at the tan old building they’d been walking alongside for the last several blocks or so. “It’s an old fortress, as I recall.”

  “Ah,” she said as he steered her to the right and through an archway that ran through the fortress.

  “So, listen,” he said very seriously, still holding his camera at the ready as they entered a massive courtyard lined with more tan buildings on all sides and teeming with people. “I hope you don’t mind that we’re not going to the Louvre today. I know you love your art, but it’s too much with all the tourists on a Saturday.”

  “I understand,” she said glumly. “I’ve waited my whole life, so I think I can wait another—”

  Off in the near distance, just on the other side of another long tan building that had been blocking their view, rose the glass pyramids of the Louvre.

  She gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, her heart soaring. Looked back to the “fortress” she’d just asked Baptiste about and discovered that, yes, it was part of the whole massive Louvre quadrangle. Frowned and swung back to him for an explanation only to discover him taking pictures of her, green eyes glimmering with amusement behind the camera.

  “I thought you said we couldn’t go today!” she cried, punctuating her remarks with shoves to his broad chest.

  He lowered the camera and burst into laughter, completely unraveling her with his thoughtfulness and boyish delight.

  “What kind of monster do you think I am? I would never bring you to Paris, then keep you from your one true love.”

  It was all too much for her.

  With a choked laugh-sob combo, she threw her arms around him, held on tight and prayed he hadn’t seen the tears in her eyes as the realization hit:

  There was just no protecting herself from this man and the way she felt about him.

  Art wasn’t her one true love. Not even close.

  Baptiste was.

  10

  “You wine folks sure know how to throw a shindig,” Melody said back in Journey’s End two Saturdays later. “I’ll give you that.”

  Samira, who’d been having a quick word with the event planner, turned to discover Melody sporting a filmy red dress and a broad smile, with her champagne flute raised in a mocking tribute.

  “I’m glad it’s up to your stringent standards,” Samira said, tucking her beaded clutch under her arm and hugging Melody as the event planner hurried off to put out another fire. “After you got dolled up and all. You look gorgeous.”

  “So do you.”

  Samira, also in black, wore a strapless velvet dress whose severity was offset by a glittering cubic zirconium collar she’d gotten for cheap at a local consignment store. “Thank you. We’ve got to represent with all these European types floating around tonight.”

  Though Samira knew she looked her prettiest and could talk a good game, her self-esteem had plummeted about 10 percent when Baptiste’s ultra-rich friends and colleagues started arriving tonight, and lost another five points per hour.

  At this rate, there’d be nothing left of it by midnight.

  Journey’s End was upscale, sure. If you wanted to find, say, a dinner that included Kobe beef, or a pair of Christian Louboutins, you didn’t have to look too hard to find them.

  But these people…

  They wore couture. Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana and Alexander McQueen, to name but a few that Samira recognized from when she flipped through Vogue at the dentist’s office. Their wrists, ears, fingers and necks were bedazzled, and not with the kinds of colored crystals you could find at the local bead store. They spoke French, Italian, Spanish and some other language (Portuguese?) that Samira wasn’t familiar with.

  They were, in short, wealthy, sophisticated and white.

  Baptiste’s people from the world he grew up in.

  If Samira was none of those things, didn’t that necessarily mean that she did not and, more importantly, could not belong in Baptiste’s world?

  She kept trying to keep her chin up and shrug off the existential crisis she’d been struggling with ever since the Paris weekend, but it wasn’t that easy after seeing him in his natural habitat. Especially now that she and Baptiste were about to hit the first real test of their relationship.

  Well, second real test, if you counted the Daphne incident.

  Baptiste needed to return to Paris tomorrow.

  For at least a week, because he’d put off some issues surrounding his own winery back in France while he’d been here in Journey’s End, working on the merger.

  Worse, things had been tense between them since they returned from Paris. Baptiste had been just a smidge short with her. Become just a little aloof. And every time he looked at her with that inscrutable expression he’d developed lately, the crushing weight of dread on her chest got a little bit heavier.

  Samira’s feelings were, therefore, running close to the surface. The stress of working overtime planning tonight’s gala had added to the anxiety generated by their pending separation and the uncertain status of their relationship (Baptiste had said nothing about where they’d go from here. Nothing!) and created a toxic emotional combination that kept her a paper cut away from a crying jag.

  “Can you talk for a second,” Melody asked, jarring Samira out of her gathering funk, “or do you have to go schmooze?”

  Samira checked her watch. No one would need her again for a while, not until Daniel gave his speech and thanked everyone involved with the merger and the gala.

  “Eh, I’ve got time. The event planner’s got everything under control. And the crowd’s liquored up enough now that I’m not sure they’d notice if something blew up anyway.”

  They took a moment to survey the same grand ballroom.

  For tonight’s gala black-tie celebration of the new Château Harper Rose Winery, wine flowed. Fall flowers decorated the tables in glorious two-ti
ered creations. Strategically placed food stations offered the kinds of culinary delicacies that required an adventurous spirit and a translator. Special lights installed for the occasion bathed everything in a romantic golden glow, and a pianist played jazz standards on a concert grand.

  Over in the far corner, Daniel, Sean, Daniel’s father Nigel and the rest of the handsome Harper men and their wives and girlfriends posed for the photographer. Baptiste, Samira saw, remained engrossed in a conversation with a couple of buddies who’d flown in for the occasion—Sexy Blond Guy and Sexy Latin Guy.

  “The hottest three guys here,” Melody said, tracking Samira’s gaze. “Although the blond guy looks like he’s got a rod up his ass.”

  Samira took a closer look just in time to see Blondie glower around the room in general. A server offered him an hors d'oeuvre and received a curt response that left her scurrying away with her shoulders slumped.

  “Well, he’s a real treat, isn’t he?” Melody muttered. “Your man looks amazing, though.”

  Melody was right—Baptiste wore a sleek black tuxedo that had clearly been cut for his spectacular body alone—but Samira’s brain had snagged on the words your man.

  “He’s not mine,” she said testily. “He’s heading for Paris tomorrow. He has meetings.”

  Melody spared her a sidelong frown. “Yeah? So?”

  “So, I don’t know what’s going to happen now.” Samira hated to admit this humiliating information aloud, but facts were facts, and Melody was her best friend. “We haven’t talked about it.”

  “Hang on.” Melody swung around to aim all her growing horror at Samira’s face. “What do you mean, you haven’t talked about it? What? You don’t discuss personal topics when he’s living with you and you sleep in the same bed every night?”

  “I mean, he said we need to talk before he leaves, but I don’t have a good feeling.” Samira pressed a hand to her clammy forehead; God, it was hot in here. “And now would be the time to make a clean break. Or for the relationship to fall apart because of the long-distance thing.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Will you give all this negativity a rest?” Melody barked, turning to look at Baptiste again. “It’s like you have a PhD in pessimism, or something.”

  As though he felt the weight of their attention, Baptiste glanced over at Samira just then, giving her a jolt of his tension. His eyes were flinty, his jawline tight as he gave her a swift once-over.

  There it was again. The Look.

  They’d arrived separately because of her ongoing embargo against making their relationship public at work, plunged into their various responsibilities for the evening and had had no one-on-one interaction yet. He hadn’t come over to say hello to Samira nor, in fairness, had she worked up the courage to say hello to him.

  Not with him looking at her like that.

  He was dumping her ass tonight, Samira concluded miserably. No question about it.

  A couple of painful beats passed between them, then one of his buddies said something to him and drew his attention away from Samira. He turned away, leaving her to press a hand to her belly and try to get her thundering pulse back under control.

  Melody’s breath hissed beside her. “What was that about?”

  “I don’t know.” Samira waved a hand, trying to keep it as upbeat as possible. “He wanted us to come together tonight, but I insisted we come separately. He says he’s tired of hiding our relationship.”

  “Yeah, I never really understood that, to be honest,” Melody said. “Why are you two so low-key again?”

  “Because I work for his company,” Samira said. “Try to keep up. It’s not hard.”

  “Yeah, but Daniel’s your boss.”

  “Yeah, and Daniel has made it clear he doesn’t want the help publicly fraternizing with the owners. And I’m trying to keep it discreet. I don’t want everyone in the office all up in my personal business. It’s bad enough that everyone knows I got left at the altar not that long ago.”

  Melody scowled. “You do realize you’re talking out of both sides of your mouth? Why would a man who wants to take your relationship public be planning to break up with you?”

  “I really don’t know,” Samira snapped, snatching a glass of water off the tray of a passing server and drinking as though her life depended on it. “Can we change the subject? I’m not trying to get into all this right now.”

  “Yeah, no.” Melody crept closer and took a good look at Samira’s face. “Are you feeling okay? Your color’s off.”

  “Don’t go into doctor mode on me, okay? If my coloring is off, it’s because of the lighting.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And these shoes were not the best option, to be honest,” Samira said, pointing to the killer heels she’d bought, along with her dress, using Baptiste’s credit card. “They’re making my back hurt.”

  Melody studied her with the long, purse-lipped look that never boded well for Samira.

  “What?” Samira demanded.

  “What’s really going on, Sami? This whole situation sounds like a bunch of excuses to me.”

  “Excuses?”

  “You care about that man. Don’t bother denying it. You’ve been floating around on a cloud since he showed up in your life, and you know it.”

  Floating around on a cloud? Yeah, that about covered it, and it wasn’t just the sex. Hell, that wasn’t even the half of it. It was the laughter. The camaraderie and knowing that he was there, watching and waiting in the wings in case she wanted to talk or to snuggle. The faintly amused why so serious? glimmer he always had in his eyes, as though he knew her thoughts leaned toward The Dark Side at times, and believed nothing could be so bad if they were in it together.

  Floating on a cloud?

  How about crazy, stupid in love with him in a way she’d never suspected could be natural or legal? And how about scared out of her mind? Because it was all well and good to talk about exploring their relationship and seeing where it took them as long as no difficult issues ever popped up and they never reached a decision point.

  But now a decision point was headed her way like a bullet with her name on it, and even she couldn’t stick her head in the sand any longer.

  She was scared out of her freaking mind.

  Canceled wedding? Ha. That had left her bloodied and limping.

  Baptiste going back to France without a backward glance, or their relationship collapsing under the strain of thousands of miles between them?

  That would leave her decimated.

  Melody seemed to know it too, which was one of the best—and the worst—things about her. She knew things. Hence, the pitying look in her eyes.

  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” she asked gently.

  Samira averted her face, incapable of answering.

  “You can’t keep putting it off. You and Baptiste need to have a long talk and figure things out—”

  “I know,” Samira said, rubbing her lower back and wishing she could crunch about four Tylenol. “But it’s not that easy.”

  “It could be. Just talk to him. That man’s crazy about you. Trust me, I know.”

  Samira’s ears perked up. “Know what?”

  Melody flapped a hand. “I can’t get into it. Let’s just say that I’ve seen firsthand evidence of how much he cares about you, and leave it at that.”

  Samira gaped at her. “You can’t just dangle some secret information, then clam up on me like that!”

  “Sucks to be you. Just talk to the man. Work things out.”

  “I’m scared, though.”

  “Yeah, well, luckily, you’re brave.” Melody gave her a look that was steady and uncompromising. “And time’s running out.”

  “What’s all this gloom and doom over here?” said a gravelly male voice to their right.

  “Hey, Dad.” Samira swallowed the hard lump of anxiety in her throat and smiled at her father, Joe, who had rented a tuxedo for the occasion and was gnawing on a lamb chop. He looke
d quite handsome, too, although she would have had him leave the Humphrey Bogart dress fedora and neon purple bow tie and handkerchief at the door if it’d been up to her. Her mother, Rhoda, meanwhile, looked very pretty in a brown mother-of-the-bride dress and orchids on her wrist. Samira hugged them both. “Mom. You went for the old-school corsage, I see.”

  Her mother made a show of primping, smoothing her hair and striking a pose with her hand on her hip. “We have to show them how it’s done in Journey’s End.”

  Samira kept her smile firmly in place and refused to think about some of the dresses and jewels she’d seen gliding by tonight, any one of which cost about half of her mother’s yearly salary back before she retired from her job as a dental hygienist. With these two tonight? Honestly, Samira needed to focus all her energy on praying that their small talk did not include any references to the best grilling methods for pork chops, the latest episode of CSI: Whatever or a minute dissection of which travel trailers got the best mileage.

  “You girls look beautiful tonight,” Joe said, now kissing Melody. “You sure do clean up real nice.”

  “Why, thank you,” Melody said, beaming at them.

  Joe took another generous bite of lamb chop, smearing the sauce across his lower lip. “You know what this party reminds me of, Rhoda? Remember the episode of Scandal with the state dinner?”

  Rhoda frowned. “The one where Fitz wanted Olivia to meet him in the rose garden?”

  “That wasn’t a state dinner. That was a ball,” Joe said.

  “You mean when Olivia had the white dress and they danced?” Rhoda asked, pulling a tissue from her sleeve and leaning in to wipe Joe’s mouth.

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t no state dinner,” Joe said, brushing her hand aside. “The point is—”

  “I think I know which episode had the state dinner. Unless you’re talking about the episode where everyone got shot?”

  Samira and Melody exchanged a worried glance.

  “The assassination attempt?” Joe scowled. “Now you know that’s not the episode—”

  “Ah, Mom. Dad. Maybe tonight isn’t the night to debate Scandal episodes.” Samira thought that over. “Or any TV episodes.”